She mouthed, “This is my body, given for You.”
The words were not to man,
But to the formless mercy of Nala,
Whose touch split her into revelation.

Pain became the altar,
And pleasure, the priest.
Her blood dripped in perfect rhythm,
Like a rosary counted in reverse.

The faithful speak of heaven,
But she knows better
Heaven fits inside a skinless frame,
Where the soul is molten,
And the body blooms in screaming grace.